


dreaming in gold

by sometimeswritingsometimesdying



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Implied homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, blood mention, grieving... lots of grieving, illness mention, implied alcahol/drug abuse, patton's dad dies and he goes to church oop, this is technically set in the 80s but idk u chose the time period at this point, this is very much me venting don't get me wrong, uuuh religion is shown as a sort of positive thing so?? beware ig
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sometimeswritingsometimesdying/pseuds/sometimeswritingsometimesdying
Summary: patton looks for closure and he isn’t sure why
Relationships: Morality | Patton Sanders/Deceit Sanders, its minor but its there - Relationship
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	dreaming in gold

**Author's Note:**

> ok SO  
> i don't go to church regularly so do i know what i'm talking about? no! not really  
> BUT i know the thing that pat's feeling in this, and i wanted to get it out, and i've found that sometimes closure can be found where we expect it least so. yea  
> enjoy & don't be mean in the comments pls

He stood there, in front of the doors, hands jammed into the pockets of his coat and nose scrunched up. It was the middle of january, and the streets were mellow and sad, with few people roaming around them, a sharp, cutting wind accompanying them with each step.

And there, in front of the large, wooden doors, at seven pm tight, stood Patton A. Moore. He Didn't even know why he was doing this. He didn’t  _ have _ to do this. But he’d gone out for an evening walk, as he’d taken up to doing, and his eyes had fallen on the local church’s doors. 

He wasn’t a religious man. Maybe he had been, as a kid, when all it took in his head to talk to Him was a simple “hey, god?”, but he’d given up faith a long time ago, when life got hectic and his mind was clouded.

No, Patton Moore was not a religious man.

He didn’t question it, didn’t question his motive, didn’t question the reason he had felt a draw towards the doors. He was going to walk away and not think twice about it.

“Are you here for mass?” he turned his head to his left, finding a priest opening one of the side doors with a warming smile. “It was over about twenty minutes ago but i’m sure you’ll find what you need anyway.”

Patton looked at the man in silence, about to refuse his offer, but he was shivering slightly out there, and there was a warm lighting coming from inside that door, and beyond whatever reasoning he could give himself- he nodded and thanked Father and walked straight in.

The church was, as most churches he remembered, rather grand. The marble and the gold and the paintings- the statues and the candles and the organ- it all pulled together a rather magnificent scene.

Above it all, the smell hit him most. The old smell of dust and benches and perfume that reminded him of the many afternoons spent with his father, sitting in the very front row of those seats. The light from the streetlamps filtered in through the glass mosaics, casting colorful shadows across the floors.

It was inviting. Loving, almost.

He took a seat in the second to last row, close enough to the doors for a light and chilly wind to nip at his scalp. It seemed to be reminding him of how much he wasn’t meant to be here.

He tapped his feet nervously, staring at the cross that hung in the apses of the church. It was weird. Everything was too familiar and yet too estranged and out of touch for him to understand. He was feeling, feeling  _ something _ akin to devotion, perhaps. Was this what people described as devotion? A feeling of grandeur and confusion upon such a place? Upon such a scene?

What was there to be devout about when the candles people had so dearly lit up would only be burnt out by the end of the night? Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. He didn’t know, but then again he hadn’t known as a kid, and perhaps that’s when we learn most about feelings like these.

Soft steps caught his attention as the same priest that had opened the door for him walked down the aisle to his particular row of seats. The man stared at him as he stared at his feet.

“What is it exactly that you’re here for?” Patton shrugged, playing with his wedding ring. It hadn’t been a  _ legal _ wedding, perhaps. It was, after all, illegal still, but to him it had felt just about real enough. Enough for them, at least. He heard the sliding of Father’s robe as the man slid onto the bench.

“Are you a religious man, son?” Patton blinked. No, he wasn’t.  _ But he was here, wasn’t he? _ He didn’t own a rosary, but did he believe in god?

_ Well why else would everything happen? Fate? No, no, not fate, not destiny. Love then- _

He shrugged. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Father nodded thoughtfully.

“What about your father?” Patton raised an eyebrow, hoping not to be noticed. “You can tell a lot about a person when you know their father.” Father said, evidently noticing Patton’s skepticism. “Was your father a devout man?”

“He was-” Patton paused, playing with the ring on his finger. “He was, but he was a sinner too.” he stopped and chuckled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. What’s he doing? He’s a thirty year old man sitting in an empty church for the first time in a  _ decade _ . He wasn’t meant to be here. 

And yet. 

“He drank. He smoked. All the usual sins, still came to mass.” he tilted his head. “You know?”

Father just looked ahead. He nodded and smiled. “I expect you followed in his footsteps?”

Patton observed him, nervously playing with the golden band on his ring finger. “Yes and no. I didn’t turn out particularly devout-”

“Yet you’re here,” Paton sighed and nodded, moving around in his seat.

“And yet i’m here.” Father tilted his head. “I don’t know- I don’t  _ know _ why i’m here. Why  _ am _ I here?” he asked, more to himself and the room than anyone, or any _ thing _ else.

Father took a while to answer, but the air was just about warming up Patton’s hands and Patton thought nothing of it.

“Sometimes we wander into places asking for answers to questions we don’t know-” the man paused. “That we don’t know we even need to ask.”

They fell into silence after that. The good meter and a half that divided them seemed to only become more and more unrecoverable as time progressed, and as moments turned to seconds and as seconds turned to minutes.

The silence was deafening. It was all too reminiscent of a hospital room and Patton’s hands were getting cold again.

“You- you talk to god, correct?” he asked, through a trembling voice and a whisper. 

Father turned to look at him, posture ever so inclined. “In short, yes, but it’s not-”

“Just- tell me one thing,” Patton said, faulting on his usually so polite manners. “Why him?” he took a shuddering breath. “Why  _ him _ of all people? Why him? And why  _ now _ of all times?” he chewed on his lip and shrugged, helpless. “Does god have an answer to that? He makes all of this happen,” he paused, looking down at his hands, lying limp in his lap. “doesn’t he?”

He heard no response, he heard no response for a long, long time.

“When did it happen?” A short humorless chuckle escaped him.

“So there is no answer?” No response. He looked up at the ceiling, observing the alfresco that popped out between golden arcs. “This morning. My brother called me.” he shrugged and smiled a sour, bitter smile. “My father he- started feeling ill and coughing up blood and-” he felt his eyes start to water and he could feel his cheeks reddening. “and they- they called an ambulance but there wasn’t much they could do and- and i wasn’t there.”

He shook his head as he felt a tear roll down his face. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeves until Father handed him a handkerchief. He took it, albeit rather reluctantly and held it in his hands, playing with the edge of it. It had him focusing on something, as he tugged on the string and folded and unfolded the piece of cloth.

“I wasn’t there.” he raised his hand to gesticulate and then let it fall. “I wasn’t there. My brother was. I wasn’t.” he shrugged, his voice slowly turning back to normal from the small whisper it had fallen into. “I told him to go to hell eight years ago, and I never looked back. I never spoke to him again.” he took up a sudden interest in the footrest on the bench in front of him, as he avoided eye contact with the only other person in the room. “Sort of ironic that now I'm here of all places, huh?” Patton paused for a moment, took a deep breath. He raised his eyes and looked around him- at the statues and the crosses and the  _ alfrescos _ and the rows upon rows of empty seats. It was familiar. Old and familiar and all too loving.

Father stared ahead, a conflicted expression on his face.

“You asked me why He would let this happen,” he said, all at once. Patton nodded, although he wasn’t being asked anything. “You asked me why He would let this happen and, in complete honesty, the answer is a rather morbid one.” he paused. “If there is an answer at all, that is.”

“Well then,” Patton smiled tight lipped. “Enlighten me?”

“Perhaps it’s what you needed and He was simply helping you through it,” Patton was about to open his mouth to protest, but Father held up his hand in a stopping motion. “What i  _ mean _ , is that you’re here now, aren’t you? In a way, you’ve reconnected with your father.” Patton pulled his coat tighter around himself, although his hands were warm. He  _ supposes _ that he did. Maybe. He wasn’t so sure, but, then again, he wasn’t sure about  _ anything _ right then and there.

And they shared a silence, then. A silence that was filled with the smell of perfume and benches and old scrolls and a golden lighting that found its way in from outside and the texture of the dark wooden seats. Father smiled at him, that weird, familiar smile that felt all too loving to show to a man like him. The bells rung out.

Eight pm.

He heard a soft “Patton” when he closed the door behind him. It took him longer than normal to take off his coat and his scarf, feeling Janus’s eyes on him as he worked through the motions. He'd always done them in a breeze but lately they felt so heavy.

He turned around, his eyes landing on his husband leaning in the doorway, in all his pajama-pants-and-t-shirt glory. He wasn’t smiling, not a sympathetic or a ‘everything-will-be-alright!’ smile either. He was frowning, the deep kind of frown that made lines appear on his face and his eyes darker.

Patton walked up to him and kissed his cheek. They stood there for a few minutes more, Janus stroking his hand and Patton intently staring at his shoes.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, making Janus snort and shake his head.

“I should be asking you that,” he said, interlocking their fingers. Patton half-smiled at him.

“I’m-I’m,” Patton paused. “I’m _something_. I went to church,” he added hastily. Janus tilted his head.

“And did that help?” Patton smiled, shaking his head.

He walked past Janus, slipping his other hand into his husband’s and heading to the bedroom. “Let’s just get some sleep.”

He dreamed about something golden.


End file.
